The Big Fat Joke Book Page 2

  ‘Sorry,’ replied the father. ‘I can’t answer that one either.’

  Seeing the look of disappointment on his son’s face he added: ‘But you must keep asking questions. If you don’t ask, how will you ever learn anything?’

  A firm of solicitors in Mumbai go under the name of Patel, Patel, Patel and Patel. The office phone rang and the voice at the other end asked:

  ‘May I speak to Mr Patel?’

  ‘Mr Patel is not in his seat.’

  ‘In that case can I speak to the other Mr Patel?’

  ‘The other Mr Patel is out of station.’

  ‘Then put me on to the third Mr Patel.’

  ‘Sorry, the third Mr Patel has gone out for lunch.’

  ‘Okay then, I will speak to the last Mr Patel.’

  ‘Patel speaking.’

  A patriotic Sardarji saw the Indian tricolour fluttering in the breeze. He stood at attention and saluted. ‘Why did you salute that flag?’ asked a passerby. ‘It has saffron for the Hindus, green for the Muslims and white for all the others. Nothing for the Sikhs.’

  Pat came the Sardarji’s reply: ‘And what do you think the danda on which the flag flutters represents? Only the Sikhs.’

  An elderly and rich bania who was mean in money matters acquired a young, pretty wife who was a spendthrift. He thought of a scheme to teach his wife the habit of saving. He presented her with a small tin box with a slit in its lid, locked it and put the key in his pocket. ‘Meyree jaan’ he said to her, ‘every time you let me kiss you, I will put a four anna piece into the box. At the end of the month I will unlock it. All the money in it will be yours to spend as you like.’

  The scheme worked very well. The young wife showed more willingness to be kissed and her elderly husband was quite happy to part with four anna coins for what he got in return.

  At the end of the month with a grand gesture he produced the key from his pocket and unlocked the box. What he saw did not please him. There were many fifty paise and rupee coins in the box. ‘Where did these come from?’ he demanded angrily. ‘I’ve only been putting in chavannis.’

  ‘Not everyone is as mean as you,’ replied the wife saucily.

  American astronauts land on the moon only to find Russians awaiting to greet them. They are comparing notes when they see a family of Sikhs strolling by. ‘When did you people get to the moon?’ ask the Yanks and the Ruskies.

  ‘Many years ago,’ replies the Sardarji blandly. ‘We came here after the Partition.’

  A newly appointed health minister of a northern state (guess which?) whose knowledge of English was somewhat elementary was on his first official visit to the largest hospital in the Capital. The Director of Medical Services took the minister round the operating theatres and general wards till they came to the women patients’ section. ‘This, sir, is the labour ward,’ explained the director. The minister stopped in his tracks and said firmly: ‘I will not visit this ward. Don’t you know we have a labour minister in the government? I must not trespass into his domain.’

  Mr T.A. Pai, a former cabinet minister, when asked to comment on the ‘no-change’ in the style of functioning and the poor performance of the Janata government, is said to have remarked: ‘Why should anyone have expected anything better from them? They are only our B team.’

  A well-dressed gentleman hurrying along the road was stopped by an acquaintance. ‘My friend,’ said the man, sotto voce, ‘I must draw your attention to the fact that your fly-buttons are undone.’

  ‘I know,’ replied the well-dressed man, brushing aside his acquaintance. ‘I am on my way to the Income Tax office to make a voluntary disclosure.’

  A party of American pressmen were granted an interview with Chairman Mao Tse-tung. After having heard the denunciation of the Soviet Union and other imperialist powers, one of the party asked the Chairman: ‘Sir, what in your opinion would have happened if, instead of John F. Kennedy, Mr Khrushchev had been assassinated?’

  Chairman Mao pondered over the question for a while before he replied, ‘I doubt very much if Aristotle Onassis would have married Mrs Khrushchev.’

  Tarlochan Singh of Markfed pumps me with the wonderful achievements of his organization. He thrusts a large parcel of Markfed products on me: canned fruit and vegetables, fruit juices, jams, pickles and the Punjabi manna—sarson ka saag. ‘We are exporting our saag all over the world,’ he states with evident pride. ‘You try it out when you are in Mumbai; there is nothing like it.’ There is certainly nothing like it: half a tin consumed will produce enough gas in your belly to make you airborne like a jet plane.

  A Sardarji is lying across the rail tracks with a bottle of whisky and a tandoori chicken within reach. A passerby asks: ‘Sardarji, why are you lying on the rail lines? A train may come any moment and run over you.’

  ‘Precisely!’ answers the Sardarji. ‘I have no desire to live any longer. I want to kill myself.’

  ‘Then why have you this bottle of liquor and the tandoori chicken beside you?’

  ‘Why not?’ demands the Sardarji. ‘You can’t rely on trains running on time any more. You don’t expect me to die of hunger and thirst, do you?’

  This happened during the British Raj. The then sub-collector of Penugonda (now in Andhra Pradesh) and his memsahib were always quarrelling. One night the Burra sahib became very angry with his wife and yelled, ‘You bloody bitch! I will slice you in two.’ At that precise moment a drunken gentleman who was passing by the bungalow shouted, ‘Please let me have the bottom half.’

  A Mrs D. Thomas of Guwahati put in an advertisement in the Assam Tribune of 17 July 1985 for the sale of her cottage, land and a pair of oxen. It is not known whether it was the lady or the compositor of the paper who was responsible for the ad that ultimately appeared prominently boxed. It read as follows: ‘For sale. Five bighas of high land adjacent to NH 37, 20 km from Guwahati city on the way to Sonapur, with a small cottage, electricity, deep tubewell with electric pump, cowshed and a pain of bullach.’

  President Zia-ul-Haq’s trusted barber seemed to have become infected by the popular demand for the restoration of democracy. One morning while clipping the President’s hair he asked: ‘Gareeb pur war! When are you going to have elections in Pakistan?’

  The President ignored the question with the contempt it deserved from a military dictator. At the next hair-cutting session, the barber asked: ‘Aali jah! Isn’t it time you redeemed your promise to hold elections?’

  The President controlled his temper and remained silent.

  On the third hair-clipping session, the barber again blurted out: ‘Banda Nawaz, the awam (common people) ar clamouring for elections, when will you order them?’

  The President could not contain himself anymore and exploded: ‘Gaddar! I will have you taught a lesson you will never forget.’ And ordered his minions to take away the barber and give him ten lashes on his buttocks.

  The barber fell at the great man’s feet and whined: ‘Zill-i-lllahi (shadow of God), I eat your salt; how can I become a gaddar (traitor)? I only mentioned elections to make my job easier.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ demanded Zia-ul-Haq.

  ‘Every time I utter the word election, Your Excellency’s hair stands on end and is much easier to clip.’

  Dr S.K. Kulshrestha teaching in D.A.V. College, Dehradun, has sent me two examples of the language communication gap which he encountered. Since Dehradun is not far from Punjab, many Punjabis seek admission to his college. However, since preference is given to UP boys and girls, outsiders are asked to state their ‘length of residence in UP’, and attach their certificates. A boy from a Punjab village filled in his form and against the column ‘length of residence’ wrote, ‘366 kilometres’.

  Another applicant filling in details of his name, address etc. put against the column ‘born’ the simple reply: ‘Yes.’

  A greenhorn not familiar with the manners of the city folk happened to be spending his holidays with his uncle in Lucknow. During his sta
y there was a death in the neighbouring house. The uncle decided to take his nephew along to the bereaved family to offer his condolences. In proper Lucknavi style the uncle began to extol the virtues of the dead man: ‘He was a great soul. He was not only your chachaji but the chachaji of our entire mohalla. May his soul rest in peace! We will miss him as long as we live.’ And so on. Our greenhorn maintained a stiff-lipped silence.

  Back home, the uncle reprimanded his nephew, ‘Don’t they teach you manners at home? You also should have said something about the dead man being like your own chachaji.?

  The lad apologized saying he had never been to condolence meetings with anyone but would bear the advice in mind.

  A few weeks later a friend of the greenhorn lost his wife and he decided to offer his condolences in the formula prescribed: ‘She was a greac soul. She was not only your wife, but the wife of all of us in our mohalla.’

  The late Bhulabhai Desai was renowned for his ready wit which helped him to score over his adversaries in debate. Less is known of an equally witty and resourceful person, Sri N.N. Sarkar who happened to be the law minister before Independence. Sarkar was introducing a bill to make provisions for the care of illegitimate children and mistresses who were left unprovided by men they had lived with. Desai thought he would put Sarkar on the spot by asking: ‘May I know from the hon’ble law minister what is his government’s attitude towards men keeping mistresses?’

  N.N. Sarkar was quick to retort: ‘Sir, we have no first-hand experience of such relationships and will be happy to receive guidance from honourable members like yourself who have more knowledge and experience of the subject.’

  Since the army is gradually taking over more and more functions of the police, there is much heartburning in police circles. A constable who could not take the reduction of his status much longer, got talking to a jawan: ‘Bhai, I am told that you jawans of the army have to spend many years on the borders before you get leave. Meanwhile, your wives go on bearing children. Is this really true? How do you treat these ready-made children planted on you?’

  The jawan replied cooly: ‘I do not think this is a common occurrence. But when it takes place we enrol these ready-made children, as you call them, into the police.’

  Not to be outdone by Rakesh Sharma and Ravish Malhotra, two sturdy Punjabis applied to NASA, the American space agency, to be taken to outer space. Their application was accepted and they were asked to report at the centre in California. They were told that during their period of training they must not take any alcohol. They followed the strict regimen imposed on them for several weeks, till one day they could not resist the temptation to wet their lips. Since no strong drink was available anywhere near their centre, they drank up a canister of rocket fuel. Next morning the following dialogue took place between them: ‘This is your friend speaking. Have you been to the lavatory this morning?’

  ‘No, why do you ask such a silly question?’

  ‘If you haven’t, don’t try. I am speaking from Tokyo.’

  A certain gentleman from northern India built a house without a roof. When asked why he had not completed the job, he replied: ‘Don’t you know that the government has decided to put a ceiling on all urban property?’

  I am beholden to Ganga Saran Sinha for the following two anecdotes of Maulana Mohammed Ali, renowned nationalist leader and a great wit of his times. Ganga Babu assures me of their veracity.

  The Maulana went to see how the central assembly functioned and got a pass to the visitors’ gallery. At the time the presiding officer was Vithalbhai Patel. No sooner than he saw the Maulana enter the visitors’ box, he stood up and announced to the members of the legislature: ‘It is not customary for the presiding officer to take notice of any person, however eminent, in the visitors’ gallery. However, I will break all conventions and say how honoured we are with the presence of Maulana Mohammed Ali. I hope it will not be long before we see him as an elected member in our midst rather than seated up in the visitors’ gallery.’

  The announcement was greeted with applause. The Maulana who had propagated the boycott of legislatures under British rule gracefully acknowledged the clapping with a bow and replied: ‘I am much honoured by your reference to me but would prefer to stay where I am so that I can look down on all of you.’

  On another occasion the Maulana who had received a doctorate from Al Azhar University of Cairo decided to visit the Central Hall of Parliament in the chogha (gown) presented to him. It happened to look very much like a burqa and combined with the Maulana’s flowing locks gave him a somewhat feminine appearance from the rear. In those times the Central Hall was equipped with a bar where drinks were available at very cheap rates. A somewhat inebriated member decided to have a crack at the Maulana. ‘For a moment I thought we had the pleasure of Begum sahiba’s company in our midst. From the rear you look exactly like a woman.’

  ‘I am sorry to disappoint you,’ retorted the Maulana, ‘my wife would never agree to come to an assemblage of hijdas. I don’t have any such inhibitions.’

  Three young women, a Tamilian, a Maharashtrian and a Punjaban happened to die on the same day and arrived in the office of Dharamraj, the keeper of life’s records. He began with the Tamilian about her life. He first questioned her about her lifestyle. ‘I have been very good; I was a virgin until I married and have been utterly faithful and dutiful to my husband. I looked after my mother-in-law and prayed everyday,’ she said.

  ‘That’s very good. I will recommend you for first class accommodation in Paradise,’ said Dharamraj.

  The Maharashtrian came next. ‘I was a full-blooded Maratha so I could not be quite as chaste in thought and deed as my Tamilian sister. But I didn’t hurt anyone and I kept my husband happy,’ she responded.

  ‘For you, second class accommodation in Paradise,’ replied Dharamraj.

  ‘And what about you?’ he asked the lady from the Land of the Five Rivers.

  ‘I was a very bad woman,’ she replied. ‘I did everything I shouldn’t have done; I never said my prayers, I quarrelled with my saas (mother-in-law), and had an affair with my devar (husband’s younger brother).’

  ‘That was very bad, behenjee,’ said Dharamraj.

  ‘Do anything you like with me but don’t call me your behen,’ snapped the Punjaban.

  ‘Okay! In that case you come to my apartment this evening.’

  Question: What is common between the Indo-Pak border and postal envelopes issued by the Indian Post Office?

  Answer: Neither can be sealed.

  A number of well-wishers who called to condole with me when my mother died said they had come ‘to condone’ my mother’s death. Ma, forgive them for they did not know what they said! They meant well. As did my photographer friend T.S. Nagarajan, who, whenever he wanted to say he did something with deliberation would say, ‘I wantonly did.’ There was never anything wanton about Nagarajan; he is as strait-laced a Tamil as I know.

  Philip Norman of the Times (London) has a new crop of malapropisms which I had not heard of before. He writes of his grandmother’s verbal gaffes. After visiting her sister in hospital she described the ‘sirloin’ drip attached to the patient’s arm with doctor’s ‘hoovering’ around and giving her ‘the RIP treatment’.

  Another lady working in a haunted house had to call in a priest to ‘circumcise’ (exorcise) the ghost. In a restaurant the excellence of the food served was ascribed to the chef who had earned a ‘Condom Bleu’ (Cordon Bleu or the blue ribbon awarded to the best of cooks).

  Malapropisms did not end with Mrs Malaprop’s description of a person being ‘as headstrong as an allegory (alligator) on the banks of the Nile’. They continue to be as many-splendoured as ‘all the colours of the rectum (spectrum).’

  This anecdote is about two Indians settled in England. One had been living there for some years and had caught on the some of the quaint euphemisms of the English. The other, a recent settler, was as yet unaware of them. They were invited for dinner by their Eng
lish friends. After they had their drinks, their hostess asked them, ‘Would you like a wash before I serve dinner?’ The knowledgeable one replied, ‘No thanks.’ The new settler replied, ‘I washed my hands before I came.’

  On their way back after dinner the older settler admonished his friend. ‘My dear chap, in England “would you like a wash” does not mean “would you like to wash your hands”. It is a polite way of asking would you like to urinate?’ The new settler made a mental note of it. Some days later when he was invited by another English friend and after the drinks he was asked by his hostess, ‘Would you like a wash, before I serve dinner?’ He replied promptly, ‘No thank you madam. I washed against a tree before coming to your house.’

  I reproduce the following excerpts of Churchill’s wit sent in by Samiran Sarkar because I had never heard of them.

  Sir William Joyson Hicks made some statement in Parliament to which Churchill gave signs of demurring. ‘I see my right honourable friend shakes his head,’ said Hicks, ‘but I am only expressing my own opinion.’ ‘And I,’ answered Churchill, ‘am only shaking my own head.’

  The genuineness of Churchill’s joke about Sir Alfred Bossom’s entry into the House has never been questioned. ‘Bossom?’ he said, ‘What an extraordinary name … neither one thing nor the other.’

  Once when his race horse Colonist II finished fourth Churchill had his own excuse. He said that he had a serious talk with the horse just before the race. ‘I told him this is a very big race and if you win it you will never have to run again. You will spend the rest of your life in agreeable female company.’

  Then Churchill added, ‘Colonist II did not keep his mind on the race.’

  When a General during the Second World War pompously asserted that ‘putting the troops in the picture before a battle was the sort of familiarity which breeds contempt,’ Churchill retorted: ‘You know, General, without a certain amount of familiarity it is extraordinarily difficult to breed anything at all.’

  Churchill’s grandmother, the Duchess of Marlborough, had this to say on the arrival of her grandson: